I am reading a book.
I run my fingers along its cover,
feeling the delicate ornaments.
I can see the words, the letters and paragraphs.
I can even smell it.
It has been created somewhere in history.
I know it, since I have it now.
It is a product of many individuals
who have worked hard to create machines,
to produce ink, paper and ideas.
For each individual there was a moment
when his work was done,
his creation complete.
I know it since I have the book.
But do those moments of creation exist?
I have been hurt, I can feel it.
Sometimes it is the only feeling I have.
I can recall the course of some events,
for some events I remember every detail,
for some of them I have only a vague memory.
But do those moments exist?
I am thinking of tomorrow,
imagining many possible outcomes.
I visualize a happy dream
and a terrible nightmare.
But do they exist?
I live between the past and the future,
tormented by what has happened
and terrified of what is going to happen.
The past is gone forever,
the future is not here.
Yet my mind does not let them go.
I can stop reading the book,
I can start reading it again.
I can do whatever I want,
but only in this strange thing called now.
Still I make my decisions
based on the coincidences of the past
or in the anticipation of the future.
What is now?
Does it exist?
I stop reading the book
and get myself a beer.
I think it exists.
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